


Paint the Town Red

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Dancing, Drunkenness, Fluff, Gen, Self-Indulgent, its not NOT canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: Bertie wants to stay in and get drunk. Sasha wants to go out and get drunk. Hamid wants to go out and get a bit buzzed. Zolf wants to sit in a comfortable armchair and read chapter eight.None of that quite happens how they were expecting it to.





	Paint the Town Red

**Author's Note:**

> me: [writes a 19 chapter fic in order to write one specific scene]  
> me: [gets to that scene]  
> me: hm, time to lose all motivation and write stupid, self-indulgent bullshit instead!  
> this was originally far more shippy, but then i decided, you know what, nah, it'll just be a bunch of drunken idiots and their longsuffering sober boss.  
> Working Title: _:)_

Hamid and Sasha are off doing gods know what, so Bertie and Zolf are alone in the Calais hotel room. What's it called? _Sais_? That can't be it, that's such a dumb name. Zolf has given up on trying to scrub the old woman's lipstick mark off of his face. It's just there now; he'll deal with it later. 

"So," says Bertie.  
"No," says Zolf.

_______

Zolf and Bertie are back at the hotel room, so Hamid and Sasha are out getting drinks. Hamid doesn't really know too much about the nightlife in Calais, but they've found a decent enough bar. Hamid ordered some fancy fruity drink, and Sasha ordered a few fingers of Firewhiskey.

"I wanna try some," she announces, and Hamid's glass is in her hands before he can give it to her. She nearly drinks half the damn thing before she realises there's no burn coming. "Where's all the alcohol?" she asks, squinting into the purply elixir, "It just tastes fruity." Hamid shrugs. Sasha passes him her glass, and he makes a face at it.

He takes a sip, though, before beginning to cough wildly. _"Wow,"_ he croaks as Sasha pounds him on the back, "not doing that again." Sasha purses her lips. She passes him his drink back, which he takes big, grateful sips of. Wimp. She signals the bartender to bring them some more Firewhiskey. She and Hamid are going to have a fun time out here. And that fun time is going to be aided by _so_ many drinks.

_______

Bertie keeps trying to drag him into a conversation. Worse, Bertie keeps trying to drag him into a conversation about _feelings._ Bertie's got a bottle of wine in his hand, and Zolf's not going to have any of it, but he also doesn't want to let Bertie drink the whole thing himself.

Hamid and Sasha better get back to the hotel soon.

_______

Hamid and Sasha aren't getting back to the hotel any time soon. And listen, Sasha knows it was stupid, she knows it could have ended really badly, but she wanted to win that drinking contest!

She did win, by the way. That's not important to what's happening right now, but it's important to her.

"What's happening right now" is that she's carrying Hamid on her back as he drunkenly mumble-sings some song that he does _not_ have the range for. He's been trying to hit a low note for the past fifteen minutes. It has not been going well.

She doesn't even know how he got this drunk! Like, she turned around for what, ten seconds? And then suddenly, the security is informing her that she and her friend need to go. "Why do we need to go?" she'd asked, and the guard had pointed to a plastered Hamid dancing on a table with several people Sasha didn't recognise. 

It was kind of impressive, though. Sasha's never seen a halfling and an elf swing dance on a barroom table before. It was enlightening. And worrying, but mostly enlightening.

"Did I tell you," Hamid asks, abandoning his musical endeavours for slurring vaguely in the direction of Sasha's ear, "that I like you?"

Sasha hikes him up on her back a little further and mumbles, "No, you didn't." Hamid lays his head on her shoulder. His tiny little arms squeeze around her collarbone in the closest to a hug he can give her.

He declares, "I do! I do like you. You're my favourite— you're not my favourite. Zolf's my favourite, we talk all the time, and he doesn't tell me to shut up. But you're my favourite! You know? You're nice, too. We don't talk, but we go out sometimes. Different favourite, so I can have two favourites at the same— favourite. Favourite. Fav— doesn't sound like a word anymore." he starts to slide down her back, so she hikes him up again. It's not a _long_ walk back to the hotel, but it's long enough she's not happy about it. "Can't tell Bertie, though," he announces loud enough for Barrat to hear them all the way back in Other London, "because he likes being the _only_ favourite."

Sasha can see the hotel's neon sign in the distance. Just a few more minutes. "Yeah," she responds, only half-listening. She's not anywhere near as drunk. Maybe she has a higher tolerance. Or maybe Hamid just took nine hundred shots in a row as soon as she turned her back. Could be either, really. 

She hikes him up again, and there's maybe a minute left on their journey. Hamid asks, "Did you see the red?"

Sasha stops a few steps from the entrance and puts Hamid down. He sways. "What red?" she asks, kneeling down to try and straighten out his tie.

"On Zolf," Hamid clarifies, and Sasha bites down a snicker. She very much saw the red, and she also saw the shade of red that Zolf turned immediately after Doris kissed him. It was _hilarious._ "Because," Hamid goes on, unaware Sasha is trying to make him look presentable enough to make the person let them back into the hotel, "it was weird. The red. Where'd it come from?"

Sasha figures he looks nice enough and walks through the door, dragging him along behind her by his hand. The concierge doesn't say anything, just opens up the elevator for them. "Doris," Sasha answers once the elevator doors are shut, "she kissed him." She's not quite sure Hamid even remembers the question he asked.

Hamid's head thumps against her thigh, and she looks down at him. His hair is in disarray, and he lost his blazer somewhere. "It's not his colour," he remarks slightly quieter than drunk-Hamid's normal volume, "that red. It clashes. Maybe something less bright? I think I have some lipstick in a maroon."

Sasha stifles a laugh. Drunk Hamid is fun. "He doesn't really seem like the lipstick type, Hamid." Hamid pouts. The elevator door opens, and Sasha picks Hamid up on her back again. "What room is ours, again?"

_______

The door unlocks just as Zolf begins to legitimately consider drowning Bertie. "Hey," says Sasha, ducking slightly. Hamid, on her back, smiles widely at him as he's saved from having his head slammed into the doorframe. Sasha's wobbling a bit, and Hamid looks... _very_ out of it. It's beginning to look like he's the only sober person in this hotel room.

Zolf raises an eyebrow. "How many drinks did you two get?"

Sasha shrugs, and Hamid goes up and down with her shoulders. She seems to remember he's there, and she places him down gently. "A few too many," Sasha answers, shutting the door and then going to sit on the arm of one of the armchairs.

"I want to dance," announces Hamid, and Zolf's pretty sure he's already swaying. He starts walking over to where the rest of the party is and holds out a hand. "Zolf, come here and dance with me."

Zolf raises his other eyebrow. "Hamid, I'm missing a leg," he points out. Hamid tilts his head, thinking this over. He shrugs and grabs Zolf's hand from where it was resting on his knee, attempting to tug Zolf to his feet. Foot. Whatever. "I don't know how to dance!" Zolf protests as Hamid continues to try and drag him out of his chair.

Hamid, still pulling on Zolf's arm, returns, "Don't care! I want to dance, and everyone else is too tall." The gramophone over in the corner starts crackling, and Zolf looks over to it. A record is on it, and the needle is down, and slow music starts to swell. He turns to glare at Sasha, who looks like she hasn't moved at all. She's looking intently into a corner, eyes crinkling with suppressed laughter. He glares harder. She doesn't look at him, but she's doing a terrible job of hiding her grin. "Now there's music," Hamid declares, "so you have to dance. Come on. I'll teach you to waltz!"

Bertie guffaws, but he turns it into a cough. Sasha doesn't bother to suppress her fit of giggles. 

Zolf is going to drown both of them.

_______

What surprises Sasha most about all this is how little of a fight Zolf put up. He doesn't look _happy_ about the fact that they're waltzing around the room, but he's going along with it. Resigned. That's the word.

Well, he _didn't_ look happy. Sasha wouldn't know how he looks now because she's been too busy snickering into Bertie's shoulder to check on him. Bertie's shoulder is shaking under her, his laughter so loud he almost drowns out the music. 

"And, spin!" Hamid directs. Sasha hears a heavy sigh. "You're not spinning." Hamid points out, and Bertie's shoulder shakes even harder. Sasha can hear the pout in Hamid's voice as he whines, "Zolf! You're supposed to spin!" She's laughing so hard she's gone silent, no air left in her lungs. 

There are a few very slow, heavy footsteps. "Happy?" Zolf asks, sounding like he wants to murder someone. Sasha is _never going to let him forget this,_ oh, gods. The last time she laughed this hard, she'd been six.

"You need to spin faster, or else we're out of time with the music."

Sasha gasps for air, and Bertie manages, "Yes, Mr Smith. You have to—" he turns nearly incomprehensible through the laughter— "you have to stay in time."

Zolf groans. The carpeting rustles. Hamid applauds. Bertie stops trying to hold back his laughter and doubles over, causing Sasha to fall on top of him. She looks up, tears in her eyes, to see Zolf glaring at her. "Sasha, come put me out of my misery," he orders, completely deadpan, and she cackles even louder.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this done? No, but it's as much effort as I'm putting into it. Check me out on Tumblr @roswell-the-wrongdoer where I post a whirlwind of incorrect quotes and then hibernate for weeks.


End file.
